Page 55 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

"Please," I whisper, fear making my voice tremble. "Help me."

What happens next unfolds in a blur of violence. The guard lunges forward, and the man shoves me aside. I stumble, crashing into a nearby table. Pain explodes in my hip as I hit the floor.

Grunts and the sickening sound of fists connecting with flesh fill the air. I look up, my vision blurred with tears, to see the two men locked in a brutal struggle.

"Run, Mrs. Zolotov!" the guard yells, managing to land a solid punch to the rival’s jaw.

But I'm frozen, unable to move as I watch in horror. The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a knife. The blade glints in the light, and my breath catches in my throat.

"No!" I scream, but it's too late.

The knife plunges into the guard's chest. His eyes widen in shock, a choked gasp escaping his lips. He stumbles backward, hands clutching at the wound as blood begins to spread across his shirt.

I can't breathe. This can't be happening. The guard—whose name I don't even know—collapses to the floor, his life ebbing away before my eyes.

The rival turns to me, his face a mask of cold determination. "Now," he says, wiping the bloody knife on his sleeve, "where were we?"

My heart pounds as he advances, a length of rope in his hands. I scramble backward, my curvy frame hindering my movement. "Stay away from me!" I shout, my voice trembling despite my attempt at bravery.

"Now, now, Natalia," he croons, his tone sickeningly sweet. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I grab the nearest object—a heavy vase—and hurl it at him. "I won't let you take me!" The vase shatters against his shoulder, but he barely flinches.

As he lunges forward, I roll to the side, my blonde hair whipping across my face. My mind races. I need to fight, to survive. For the guard. For myself. For Denis.

"You're quite feisty for such a little thing," Mr. Volkov chuckles, easily dodging my flailing kicks.

I grit my teeth. "I'm tougher than I look." But even as I say it, I feel the rope tightening around my wrists. No, no, no!

"Let go!" I thrash wildly, but his grip is like iron. Tears of frustration burn in my eyes as he secures the knot and then ties my legs, leaving me completely motionless.

He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Your husband should have known better than to cross us. Now, you'll pay the price."

Fear claws at my throat as he hoists me over his shoulder. The room spins, and I realize with growing dread that we're moving toward the exit.

"Help!" I scream, knowing it's futile. The streets outside are quiet, and Denis's guards are gone. I've never felt so alone, so terrifyingly vulnerable.

As Mr. Volkov reaches for the door handle, I close my eyes tightly. Please, someone, anyone—help me.

Suddenly, the door explodes inward with a deafening crash. My eyes fly open, my heart leaping into my throat as I catch sight of the one person who can save me.

"Put. Her. Down." Denis’s voice is low, dangerous, and ready to kill—a tone I've never heard from him before. But then again, you won’t find me complaining.

Chapter 22 - Denis

The phone rings, shattering my concentration. I glance at the caller ID—it's Maxim, the guard I assigned to watch over Natalia's store. My pulse quickens as I answer.

"Boss, something's not right," Maxim's anxious voice crackles through the line. "The investor's here, but Mrs. Zolotov looks… tense. Really tense. I can see them through the window and her body language is all wrong."

"What exactly are you seeing, Maxim?" I demand, already rising from my desk.

"She's backing away from him, arms crossed. And he keeps moving closer. I've never seen her look so uncomfortable, even with difficult customers."

A growl builds in my throat. No one makes my Natalia uncomfortable. But I force myself to take a steadying breath. "Keep watching. I'm on my way."

I hang up, conflict warring inside me. The rational part of my brain says to stay put, to trust that Natalia can handle herself. Besides, Maxim is there to protect her. But my instincts are screaming at me to rush to her side and eliminate any threat.

"Dammit," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I pace the length of my office, debating. What if I'm overreacting? What if my presence only makes things worse between us?

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